


This Cannot Be Shaken

by Farbautidottir



Series: The Thomas William Affairs [4]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farbautidottir/pseuds/Farbautidottir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrea has a run in with Tom Hiddleston on the streets of New York in the fall of 2012, which leads to an evening that leaves the question to linger: Are we in control of who we love, or is temptation merely the fruit of fate?</p><p>A/N: Set in 2012 and written in 2012, this is my first Tom RPF and contains quite a few research errors. I've chosen not to update all of them, so just flow with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Someone for Coffee

Simple Levis and my white H&M tank top, because of course I'm just running across town, meeting Michelle for coffee and it will be no big deal. Nothing will happen out of the ordinary. I throw on my drug store aviators and put the familiar green ear buds in my ear. I slide the ipod itself into my gray tweed coat pocket and give my scarf a quick wrap and knot around my neck. Double check for my MTA card in my back pocket and call out the final, "See you later!" to my husband, James, before heading out the door. I'm listening to Phantogram's Mouthful of Diamonds. It's good walking music, especially on this late fall day.

I head down to the Graham station to take the L train all the way to Chelsea. I like this line, despite how full it could get, and I like the dump out in Chelsea. I like the west part of Manhattan quite a bit, who knows why, but it just feels better. We are meeting at this little cafe Michelle adores for chatting. It isn't close enough to her apartment to make it worthwhile for studying or working on her doctorate thesis. But it’s straight down the subway line for her and so we meet there when we want to do a no-drinking hang out.

By the time I emerge from the 8th Ave station at 14th Street my ipod playlist has flipped over to Doctor Who scores. Series 5's main doctor theme. The familiar 7:4 beat and overall sense of adventure and floppy haired passion. I must have started walking with confidence and enchantment, because when I look up to check the cross walk's light, I see a man giving me a look. A good look, an entertained look perhaps is the best way to describe it. He is across the street from me, waiting for the walk signal as well. He’s cute, it seems. It is hard to be certain from across the avenue. His coat fits nicely, though it is a little outdated for the States. The light changes and I start across. The cafe is three blocks south and one more block west. The entertained man does not cross in the opposite direction, instead he stands there waiting. For me? I guess, who else would he be waiting for, especially with such an intended look? I take in his scarf and posture as I get closer, he looks familiar, but also potentially gay.

Then there it is, the realization moment. I wonder how to approach him now, now that I know who he is. Do I call him by name? Do I act like he is just a cute guy checking me out? My heart does a fluttery thing, which is not helpful at all, and I wish that I had myself here to help me. You know, the self who tends to hold her shit together with ease. That self. Calm, collected, confident, easygoing, causal, marvelous. But no. That Andrea is gone. Somewhere back on the east side of 8th Avenue. She is not here, approaching the six-foot something wiry frame of _Glamour_ 's Man of the Year. I wonder briefly if that was the last time he was in NYC. I could just ask him, I suppose. He is after all right in front of me, standing, staring, smiling right at me. _Steady, Andrea. Steady._ I say to myself without moving my lips.

"Hello, hi." he says. I pull out my ear buds and he gives another smile before saying, "What are you listening to?"

"Do you have any weird ear issues?" I ask. That is my opening line. Good lord, did someone call for Epic Failure? Because it is quickly approaching.

"No." he says and laughs. It wasn't the THE laugh, but it was fairly close.

"Good, nor do I." I say and then hold out an earbud to him. "Would you like me to start it over?"

"Sure," he says.

I pull the ipod out of my pocket.

"How old is that?" he blurts out.

"It's a 20MB. Got it the same year of the U2 Special Edition ipod and used my Bush tax return stimulus money to purchase it. That's how old."

He gives me a look.

"2004." I tell him. He nods and puts the right ear phone into his ear. I hit the back button to restart the song and put the left phone into my own ear.

"I can't hear it, really." he says. I turn it up and give a questioning look. He nods and gives me a thumbs up.

"It's Doctor Who, series 5." I say after we're 30 seconds into the song. It's a four minute song. I wonder if we're going to sit through the whole thing. My heart is pounding. I stare at his mouth and think to pull out my Chapstick. I need it suddenly. I uncap it and screw out the contents with one finger, almost a mindless task by now given my lifelong addiction to Chapstick.

"Oh, yes, the ole Doctor Who." Tom says.

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry. Odd memories perhaps." I say, somehow attempting to state that I've remembered his girlfriend from last year was in that particular series, but then not mention it. Epic Failure was approaching faster than ever before. "But anyway,"

"That's quite the talent." he says. He's looking down at my hand and my Chapstick.

"What?" I ask.

"The one fingered twisting. I'm not even sure how you're doing that." Tom says. I try not to snicker at the word "fingered" coming from his mouth.

"Years and years of practice." I say. I give him a pointed look, but I know it's hidden beneath my sunglasses. Oh well.

"I'm sorry, I'm Tom." he says finally, putting out his hand for me to shake.

"Yes, I know who you are." I say. "I'm Andrea."

We shake hands. His feels extremely warm in mine, which has been exposed to the cold air for a bit. There's a pause before people trying to cross the avenue start jostling into us.

"We should probably move." Tom says. He takes his hand back.

"I'm meeting someone for coffee." I say. Why did I say that?! Michelle wouldn't care. She wouldn't care if I cancelled. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Oh yeah? I'll walk you there, if you don't mind." he says.

"Sure, yeah." I say, amazed at the miracle of his response. I break into a laughing smile and add, "I don't mind."

"So, you're a Doctor Who fan, then?" he asks me.

"Yes, quite a bit."

"Who is your favorite?" he asks.

"That's difficult. All the new ones are good, each brings their own style. I have a special spot for Tennant, since he was my first. And I do like Hartnell."

"Hartnell? Look at you." Tom says with one of those impressed tones that's a little bit mocking at the same time.

"Yeah well, you asked." I say. "You should hear this song though."

I cue up Phantogram's ‘Let Me Go.’

I wait for a moment before saying, "It gives me this Rachel Weisz Deep Blue Sea feeling. A repetitive longing that might be a ballad, but requires another voice. You see what I mean? Right here, that bass line."

He stops walking to listen. Finally he speaks, "The sway. Yes, I see what you mean. It too has this raw musicality to it, nothing too electronic or synthetic sounding."

I nod.

"Let me go, over and over. Not quite the right lyric though, unless you mean with the husband?" he says. I look at him, he's smirking.

"No, I disagree." I say, "It's what must happen to the pair. Besides, her husband has already let her go, in the way he knows how to anyway. It could be argued, also, that the lyric is referencing the singer's memories holding onto her, holding her back. She's commanding them to let her go. But it's only your first listen, so..."

"Where is this cafe you're meeting someone for coffee at?" he asks.

"Three blocks," I say. "She'll be late. You could join me if you want."

I look away quickly. Facing forward, ahead. Did I just ask Tom Hiddleston to coffee? I did. I so did.

"Yeah, okay, if it's not an intrusion." he says. "I've got nowhere to be."

"No, she's habitually late and I budgeted my time too well. The train was right on time and no delays."

"Well, then sure. I'll keep you company while you wait for your habitually tardy friend."

"In that case, let's cut over then. It's one block west and then 2 more blocks down." I say and turn at the corner. He doesn't turn with me immediately, causing the ear phones to come out of our ears. As the wires drop, we both go to catch them. In the process my aviators fall off, they're a loose fit anyway. I'm thinking, "Shit" as they fall. Not that they're worth a lot, but scratched sunglasses are annoying and have to be replaced and we were almost to budget for the month. Tom catches them with his free hand. It's not the world's sexiest move or anything, they're just sunglasses and we were already in the process of catching something. My eyes are adjusting to the sunshine and the change in lighting when he looks at me and says, "Here you go." I want to say thank you, I think it profusely and with fervor, but I cannot speak. I smile stupidly and stare at him. His eyes are so, so blue. Breath-defying blue. I couldn’t tell before with my sunglasses on. This is unfair.

"No, no, come on." he says finally, as if he realized that I was struck speechless. As if this type of thing happens to him all of the time. He starts walking, so I follow along. As if he even knows where we’re going. I guess I gave him the directions. I think to say something, anything. It's the moment of truth, Epic Failure has actually arrived and is taking passengers. I've got a first class seat, apparently.

"Island, Florence, something. No." I say. Wow. What the hell was that? I have to get my shit together and fast.

"What?" he asks and then does it. He does the laugh.

"Do it again." I say.

"Do what again?" he says.

"The laugh. I want to..." I trail off. Is it weird to tell him that I'm planning to watch his tongue?  Yes, that's weird.

"You want to? Then you do it." he says, attempting to finish my sentence.

"No! I can't." I say and laugh. It's infectious. He laughs again, this time at me, and it's not THE laugh.

"There you are." he says.

"No! No, no, you know the one. Where your tongue pushes up to the roof of your mouth. That one."

"My tongue?" he says and looks at me with a strange expression. I can't tell if he's offended or not, if he suddenly finds me creepy or not.

"Oh, nevermind." I say. "Come on, it's getting cold."

He laughs again. The laugh. It's glorious. I'm not looking at him though, it's as if he doesn't want me to see.

"Did I do something awkward?" he asks me.

"No, no." I say. I don't sound convincing. I don't know how to convince him. "Let's new topic. Um... Cambridge, what was that like? Did you enjoy that? I mean, no, I mean to ask just because I'm looking into graduate studies, and I'm just curious about that as an option, perhaps."

"Cambridge was wonderful." he says. "What are you planning to study?"

"Well..." I start and realize that Cambridge doesn't even have a program for what I want to study. I've already looked into this over a year ago.

"Do you know?" he asks.

"Yes, I want to study writing. It's just, Oxford has the program, not Cambridge. I've just remembered that." I say. Smooth enough recovery.

"Oxford is a great school, too." he assures me. As if I don't know this.

"Yes, too expensive though. Anyway, no, I'm not sure really if it's what I want to do. I mean, writing is what I want to do, but do I need a MFA? Debatable." I say.

"So, you're a writer, then? What do you write?" he asks.

"You should be an interviewer. You move conversation along very well." I tell him. I leave off the thought 'just like my husband.'

"I have to talk to a lot of people." he says with a smile. "But thank you."

"Left here." I say. This time our turn is in sync. "So, writing, yes, I have a novel out and I'm working on another."

"Oh wow!" he says. Clearly he didn't expect me to be a novelist.

"Is that surprising?" I say and kind of give him a hip bump. Well, I attempt to, I hardly graze him and it ends up looking and feeling like I've just walked into him on accident.

"I suppose it is. I didn't expect it, at least. Not that you shouldn't have, or that you couldn't have -- Oh, god, I've offended you."

"No! I was trying to hip bump you so you knew I was joking. It was, yeah." I say.

"Like so?" he asks and then hip bumps me. I embarrassingly get thrown off track from his force and he laughs. "I'm so sorry. I was too hard, apparently."

"Yes, too hard." I say. I'm biting my lip attempting not to burst out laughing.

"What?" he asks.

"Too hard... Come on, Tom! Really?" I finally blurt out.

"Oooh. Oh. You're bad! That's bad." he says.

"Yes well," I start. There's nothing to finish that sentence so I just bail out midway.

"What are these novels about?" he asks. There's a pause where I'm doing the intake of breath before launching into the elevator speech plot pitch when he adds, "Too hard cocks?"

"No, just one." I manage to say without laughing. "Just one very, very hard cock, Tom."

"I'm glad I'm not drinking anything." he tells me. "I would've spit it out just then."

"Are you trying to tell me that hard cock makes you spit out fluids?" I ask, very casually. I'm on a roll now. My collected, calm self has returned. Sexually themed conversation seems to be the ticket to my coolness. Goodbye Epic Failure, hello hard cock.

"How far away is this cafe?" he asks me in an obvious avoiding-the-question tone.

"I don't know, six inches, give or take." I say.

"Mostly give?" he says quickly.

"Look who's the expert!" I say with a smirk. We're at 9th Ave now, waiting to cross 12th street.

"I'm no expert on the ridiculous American metric system." he replies.

"Oh no? It's all stones and unrelated gallons for you?" I respond.

"Precisely. I like my petrol like no other country measures it."

"As if you ever buy petrol." I say and wave my hand at the thought.

He opens his mouth in offense, but doesn't say anything. Clearly he does not buy petrol. The light changes and we start to cross.

"I don't think you need it." he says after a moment.

"Are we still talking about the fictional hard cock from my novel?" I ask.

He laughs and says, "No, I meant graduate school."

"Ah. What makes you say that?"

"I just don't see the point. You already have a book out, isn't that the purpose of going for education?"

"There's always more to learn. Plus people to meet. I mean, where would you be without Wallander? Certainly not in Thor."

"That's for damn sure." he says.

"So, there's that." I continue. "Industry people to meet, opportunities to be opened."

"No, you're right." he says.

"It's here." I say, stopping in front of the cafe.

"Oh! Wow, I didn't expect that."

"As if we weren't walking towards it this whole time..." I say with my eyebrows raised.

"Ha ha." he says.

I open the door and see Michelle inside sitting. Her bike helmet is next to her on the ground. She biked, so it was quicker, I realize. I let out a sigh.

"What's happened?" Tom asks.

"Oh, my friend's already here." I say.

"Oh," he says.

I let the door close and step backwards away from it, he follows.

"She wasn't late after all." he says.

"Breaking a habit, it seems." I say with a laugh.

"People will always continue to surprise us." he says, somewhat softly.

"Indeed." I say.

"Okay, well, I guess this is where I leave you then." he says.

"I guess so." I say.

Neither of us moves.

"I thought we'd have more time." he says.

"Me too!" I say. "When do you leave town?" Again I am amazed at myself. I just asked Tom Hiddleston for a follow-up date, or something.

"Tonight." he says.

"Nowhere to be, huh?"

"Well, the airport is hardly a place."

"Can I get a photo, or something?"

"Yeah, sure, of course." he says.

I pull out my iphone and cue up the photo app.

"I can do it, if you want. I have longer arms."

I hand him the phone. He clearly owns one too because he's quite adept with it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah" I say.

He takes the photo and then pulls it around for us to review.

"One more" he says.

I look at him as he sets the camera up for another shot. He looks down at me and grins then takes the photo.

"I love this one." he says. "It's so intimate."

"As if we were discussing cock and stones, or something." I laugh.

"Candid, indeed." he says and puts his arm around me. "Come here."

I do and we hug and linger a little too long. I breathe him in. A mixture of laundry needing a wash, male scented deodorant, and sweat. Finally we release each other.

"Okay, see you then." I say.

"Send me that photo, okay." he says.

"How?" I ask.

He's still holding my phone. He pulls up the photo and the send as a message function. "Is it okay to send to an international number?"

"Um, sure." I say. It's not, it's my company-issued phone. But whatever. It's fine. I can manage the charges to get Tom's number.

"There we go. All sent." he says to me and hands me back my phone. "Please be careful with that number."

"Of course," I say.

"Okay, now you're going to be habitually late one if I don't just sod off, so, lovely to meet you and maybe I will give you a call before I leave the country." he says.

"I will maybe look forward to it then." I tell him.

"Bye." he says.

"Bye." I say and then manage to walk to the cafe door. I open it and look back at him. He's watching me. I smile and shake my head. As I walk into the cafe I can hear his distinct eheheheheh and I can't help but laugh as Michelle looks up to see me enter the room.


	2. The Unwritten Segment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This explains a critical moment in Andrea and Tom's relationship, but the full details were never recorded.

Later that night, the day Tom and I met, he calls to ask if he should alter his plans and stay on a bit longer. I tell him I can't do much that night, but that the next night I'll be free after I finish work for the day. I said this because my husband was going out of town for work the next morning, so I knew I'd be alone. The full details of that night haven't been written down, but it was straightforward and led to sex in his hotel room and us making a pact that we'd not see one another again. That this would never happen again and we'd never speak to each other again. That we knew it was too dangerous and risky and we both didn't want to ruin our marriages. We could tell there was a connection past the usual. That there was more. And we both decided we had to end it before it truly began in order to avoid ruining our lives.  
  
We bonded over my mocking of his going to Cambridge and his double firsts not being intimidating to me, and I assured him he was not the first man to be smarter than me. When he asked who the others were, I mentioned that there was "this French guy," and he was pleased that I'd been to France and knew some of that culture. At some point during sex I switched into Spanish, which was a major turn on for him for whatever reason.  I made some comment about his hair being like my husband's, and that's when he admitted that he was married as well.

He told me that I made him feel an emotion he'd never experienced before, that he couldn't even describe it properly. He gave me this look, and I told him not to give me the Freddie look. That he wasn't allowed. And he laughed and asked if I'd seen the film or just the youtube clip of the sex scene. I assured him I went to the film in the theater, alone, and experienced its rawness in full. That I stayed through the credits even. His eyes were warm, enriched with light and life and intelligence. Very human, very thrilling. As his eyes expressed his endearing passion and subtly throbbing desire for me, like a heartbeat underneath a song's rhythm, I knew that we could never see each other again. So, I said, "I'm sorry, but I can't." and he said, "You mustn't apologize for that."  Then he traced my fingers the way new lovers do and I kissed him lightly on the forehead, and he pulled me into his lips and we said goodbye with our tongues on the modern style couch of his hotel suite on 54th, overlooking Central Park.


	3. A Questionable Arrest in Chelsea

A year and half later, I was in London for work. We were expanding our company to London, and somehow I'd managed to wrangle that job. The business end of the trip was over, I'd checked into my AirBnB reservation the night before for me and James. He was flying that morning, landing at 3pm in LGW, then calling me to say he'd arrived and coming to the apartment. We were vacationing there until Thursday; it was Saturday at the time. Somehow, after going outside that morning, I got into a weird confrontation with a policeman and was arrested for obstruction something. I never really understood what they were charging me with. But they dragged me to the station and told me that my ID form, which was my old driver's license, was expired and thus invalid. I told them I had my passport back in my room, and they told me if I could produce proper ID proving my American citizenship then the embassy agreed the charges would be wiped.

I asked if I could go back to get the passport and they told me I could call someone to get it. My friend Matt, who had lived in London for years, had just moved to Dublin with his girlfriend because she had family stuff back in Ireland that she had to deal with, so he went with her and they decided to start their lives there. He'd just moved a few months before. I thought about who else I sort of knew who lived in London. No one. Ben Foster, James Moran, and Dave Jones. Not helpful in this scenario since I had none of their numbers and only Dave might at all have any idea who I even was.

I asked if I could get a number out of my phone. I called it a cell phone, to emphasize my American-ness, since that was my apparent ticket out. They said okay and brought me it and observed me while I went through the names. I list alphabetically by first name. I couldn't think of anyone. I considered to try Matt to see if he could contact his brother in London for me, but I knew he was in Germany for a music festival, so I didn't think he'd answer. I also thought that maybe Lynette would come down. It was a bit of a haul from her parts though. But maybe... I was supposed to see her later in the week. I could sit in a jail cell for a few hours, couldn't I?  Before I could get to the 'L' or 'M' section, I landed on 'Hiddleston'. I'd never erased him, nor had I put in his first name. In case James ever saw it. Not that I really had a good explanation for Hiddleston being in there all by itself, but it'd seemed relevant at the time.

I had to make the call from the station's phone. "Three minutes" they told me. The long beep ring of European phones ensued.

"Hallo?" his voice was high pitched, it sounded concerned. I wondered if "Police Station" or the like had showed up on his caller ID.

"Tom, hi, sorry, this is Andrea, you might not remember me from New York the other year, but I'm in London in a bit of a predicament and I could really use your help for a favor. Sorry to call."

"Hi!" he was friendly and loud, then there was a pause and shuffle and he lowered his voice some, "Of course I remember you. What are you doing in London?"

"Well, I've been arrested. And I left my passport at the place I'm staying, all I need is for you to retrieve it and bring it to the station here. I understand if you can't. I understand. I just didn't have anyone else to call."

"Well, where are you?"

I asked the officer watching me which station it was.

"District 22 in Chelsea." I said to Tom.

"Oh, brilliant, I'm near Chelsea right now. What did you do to get arrested?"

"I'm still not really sure. Obstructing something..."

The officer supplied the charge to me and I told Tom. He laughed a rich laugh and said he'd be happy to help me. I told him he'd have to come to the station to get the key first, then go get the passport, then come back.

"No problem" he said. "I've already plugged it into my GPS."

 

Tom came back with my passport. The constables let me out of the cell and had me fill out a couple forms. They were brief and basically stated that I wasn't harmed while being held as a foreign national and that it would not go on my record in either country nor at immigration. They said to call the embassy if I experienced any flags during border crossings. I thanked them, despite having nothing to really thank them about except a major delay and epic scare, then met up with Tom in the lobby. He opened the door for me and followed me out into the early afternoon.

"Well, that was interesting." he remarked once we were a bit away from the station.

"Thank you." I said, finally turning to really look at him. I met his eyes and repeated, "Thank you. I really don't know what I would have done if you'd not been able to help. James lands at three and I need to be back to meet him and able to answer my phone, and that would've been impossible to do from a jail cell in a foreign country. That's my biggest fear you know, being arrested in a foreign country. Granted, I always assumed it'd be more like Thailand or something."

"Very Colin Firth in Bridget Jones Diary II of me, then?" Tom smiled.

"I'm sad for you to have seen that film. And I'm sad for me to have seen that film. But yes, like that, minus the drugs and the female bonding." I laughed. "Actually, it was a bit like I was in a British detective drama. I watch too many of those, so I was anticipating Inspector Lestrande to waltz in at any moment, or perhaps Billie Piper coming to visit Laurence Fox on the Inspector Lewis set. No mysteriously apparating Police Call Box either, Matt Smith popping out, hair flopping about."

"Good lord, you watch more British television than I do."

"I doubt that." I said. "I'm rambling, sorry. But really, I know I wasn't supposed to call you and such, and I'm really grateful that you came to help me. So, thank you."

"Please, stop. It was nothing at all." he said.

There was a pause where we shared a long look, taking in the other person and the changes one and a half years had brought.

Finally he took a breath and spoke in an upbeat tone, "You must be starving though, and a bit in shock. Getting arrested is never easy, especially not when it's your biggest fear. We should go eat. I mean, I've already eaten, but I'll take you to eat."

"Yeah, I should eat something." I said and smiled, trying not to laugh at the Twilight reference so I wouldn't have to explain that to him. "How have you been?"

"I've been well. Increasing attention from the paparazzi, which is annoying. Worse in the States than here, ironically. But still, I can't go anywhere unfollowed. So, just be aware you're probably being photographed right now." he said.

"Should we not be seen together?" I said. "I wouldn't want to be the whore you rescued from prison on the cover of _Now_ magazine tomorrow."

"No? I suppose you'd need a sluttier look to really qualify for that." he laughed.

"At least I'd be hotter than Rooney's prostitutes." I said casually before adding, "It's your fault anyway, for making another Loki movie and staying out of the West End."

"I signed on for six films total. I can't breach my contract! Just how is it my fault that the world as a whole adores Loki?"

"I didn't even know who Loki was before you portrayed him. You're like Heath Ledger's Joker. Well, he was better, no offense, but like that. Where, as the viewer, you're conflicted about wanting to see Loki so much, because he's the villain and you want Thor to prevail, but Loki is just so much more compelling. Poor Chris, he never stood a chance really. With your eyes contrasting so much with the dark hair, and the whole of Thor was really more about your character's emotional journey than his. Really there's no reason to have any interest in Thor at all, he's quite flat comparatively." I said. "Of course, when I went to see Thor, it was in the dollar theater and I was only inspired to go because my novel had references to Thor in it, and Odin."

"But Loki kept you in your seat?" Tom said and raised his eyebrows once with a smirk.

"Yes, in fact, he did." I said, my voice becoming a touch more sultry and flirtatious.

"I feel like I've only just seen you yesterday." Tom said.

"I know." I said. We were starting to move closer to one another until I finally caught myself and abruptly said, "You know I'm not really that hungry."

"And I'm certain there's something for me to, uh, eat in the flat you’re staying at." Tom said quickly.

"Yes, if I open the kitchen cupboards wide enough, we're bound to unveil something worthwhile for you." I said. "What time is it?"

Tom looked at his watch and told me, "One fifty-two."

We didn't exchange any other spoken communication and made haste down the block and around the corner to start the ten minute walk back to the AirBnb rental. He still had the keys and hurriedly unlocked the door. We went up the walk-ups two floors and I was more than ready to shed my coat by the time he turned the key in the flat's front door. I followed him inside and he closed the door behind us and locked it. I felt his body press against mine from behind, his arm starting to wrap around my upper torso.

"Wait," I said. I stepped away from him and went to search the apartment for James. Just in case. I came back out to the living area. Tom had draped his jacket over the back of the IKEA sofa.

"Okay?" he said to me.

I nodded and approached him slowly. When I got to him, I traced my right hand's fingers up his soft cotton v-neck t-shirt from his lower ribcage, up over his pectoral muscle and slightly hardened nipple. He caught my right hand in his left hand, and surrounded my hand with his.

"What are we doing?" I asked him softly.

"I'm not sure." he replied.

"This is why we made our pact, is it not?"

"It is." he said and shut his eyes. His fingers rubbed against my hand and he murmured my name.

"We can't, Tom." I said. I closed my eyes as well, hoping the lack of visual might give me some more strength.

"Yes, we can." he said. "We shouldn't, but we can."

"It's strange." I said and opened my eyes to look at him. "I have been so good, so solid. Not thought of you much at all. But being here now, it's just..."

"Exhilarating." he delivered the line with his eyes open, staring straight into mine. There wasn't a moment between the word leaving his mouth and our lips meeting. My left hand reached up to the base of his skull, threading its way through his curls. His tongue found mine and we stood there snogging for a good five minutes before pulling away from each other to breathe.

"It's hot." I said.

Tom took off my coat and placed it on top of his own while saying, "Let's lie down."

"We really shouldn't." I said.

"I know." he replied in a playful tone.

"We'll only kiss?" I said.

"Yes, that seems safest."

"Okay," I said and he took my hand in his and we walked back to the bedroom. The bed was unmade from when I'd slept in it the night before. We sat on the edge and took off our shoes. I put my hand on his lower thigh and gave it a squeeze. He jumped a bit as reflex and then took my face into his hands and gave me a playful scolding look before releasing me and moving to the far side of the bed to lie down. I scooted over to him and draped my arm over his chest.

"It's a bit like New York," I said.

"But with a time limit." he said.

"Where does Susannah think you are?"

"She's shooting today. They couldn't get the location during a weekday." he said simply.

"Ah,"

"You said James lands at three?"

"Yes, in Gatwick, and I think he checked a bag. So, really he'll be to London maybe by four thirty, depending on customs and the queue for the express train."

"I never asked why you're here." he said.

"For work." I said. "We're opening an office over here, possibly. I'm in charge."

"Oh really?" he propped himself up on his elbow to face me, "Look at you!"

"It's not my passion." I said. "But I don't mind the pay, or the city. Except when I get arrested."

He laughed. "Yes, we can be quite abusive over here."

"Tell me about it." I said. He kissed me lightly.

"So, then, about your passion... I've tried to stay off your website and blog, mostly so I wouldn't see photos of you, but then I overheard somewhere about some author named Andrea being at ComicCon and I couldn't bear to know that we'd be so close, so I didn't bother to check if it was you or not."

"It was not." I said. "My work is more Cannes style, to be certain."

"Film?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

I winked at him and said, "Not that I've had anything produced, to be certain. But if I did, it'd be more suited to Cannes and Sundance types, not ComicCon."

"Abandoned the sci-fi so quickly?"

"Hardly. I like my plots to be more relationship-driven. But I'm more interested in the use of language propelling the reader to feel what I want them to feel."

"Manipulative words?"

"Quite. The language of Loki." I kissed him and added, "Sexier, perhaps."

"I would doubt that if I'd not read your work." he said.

His hand traced up my torso and I gave him a disapproving look. He ignored it and leaned in to kiss me instead. I kissed him back, his hand creeping up towards my breast all the while. I ran my hand over his muscular arm, finally resting on his hand, pushing it over my breast. He let me and cupped and massaged it. His mouth left mine and found its way to my neck, moving downwards. I rolled over to lie on my back and he moved over me, rubbing his nose down the invisible line between my breasts all the way to my stomach. His fingers working to undo my jeans.

"Tom," I breathed. He looked up at me and stopped what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Just kissing, we said."

I propped myself up on my elbows, my lower abs flexing was visible from where he'd lifted my shirt. He kissed the exposed skin.

"I didn't specify where you would be kissing me." I said. "And we did come here with intent that you eat something."

He smiled broadly, the skin crinkling around his shimmering blue eyes. They seemed to dance for a moment and then he was looking down at my jeans again. They were off, along with my underwear, in a swift movement, and he pushed my legs apart and kissed my inner thigh from my knee to my clitoris before going to work with his tongue. After a couple of minutes of pleasure, he sat up on his knees and pulled off his shirt.

"Don't stop there." I said in a slightly begging tone.

"Where is there?" He asked. "My shirt or the moment I stopped...kissing you?"

"Exactly," I said and smiled.

"Very well," he said and stood up, undoing his belt and pulling off his pants and underwear. He climbed back up the bed and resumed giving me oral sex until I orgasmed. He wiped off his mouth and crawled up my body, pulling up my shirt and kissing the now bare skin as he went. I put my arms above my head and let him take off my shirt and reach around me to undo my bra. His mouth fell onto mine as his arms propped his body above me. I stroked his now exposed abs, which were long like his torso, and moved my hand slowly to his cock. It was fully hard. So hard that it hurt slightly to really hold in my hand with applied pressure. As I started to tug on it, he inhaled deeply. I reached my free hand to his face as we kissed and guided his penis to my vagina. He slid inside of me, all the way in, and I tightened my muscles so the walls of my vagina would clench onto him. He let out a pleasurable groan and said, "Andrea", his lips still hovering just above mine, touching them slightly.

I adjusted my body so that he could thrust more effectively and then wrapped my legs around him. I was delicate with my hands on his back, trying not to leave any marks as I gripped him. He started to fuck me hard, and then I said, "Tom" involuntarily and he slowed down drastically. Gliding in and out of me as his back flexed trying to diffuse the pleasure throughout his body. I could feel every nerve being hit by his shaft and then head as he went. Then I heard him apologize and felt his cock's girth expand briefly as he came inside of me. He lay on top of me, regulating his breathing and nuzzling into my neck. I put my arms around him, embracing his sweaty torso and closed my eyes. After a few minutes I could feel his penis shrinking inside of me, and I stroked my hand through his damp hair.

"You have to go." I said.

He mumbled something into my neck that sounded like a negation.

"It's nearly three, and I have to air out this room and shower." I said.

"Okay," he said in an I-don't-want-to-move tone of voice.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't apologize," he said. "We were only meant to be kissing anyway."

"Yes, kissing is much less dangerous."

"Exactly." he said and pulled out of me. Instead of letting me up he moved over to the side of me, turning my body away from his, and wrapping his leg over my thigh. He placed his arm over my side and found my right hand, taking it into his to fully complete the spooning process. "I could stay like this forever." he murmured into my arm's flesh.

"We only have until three," I said. He squeezed my hand and pulled himself closer to me. I could feel his semen starting to pool out of me, onto my thigh. I knew I had to stop it from hitting the sheet, there was no time to wash it, and I had no idea where the laundry was. All I wanted was to lie there with him and not care though. "Tom," I started.

"Andrea?"

"This is a problem." I said.

"I know." he sighed. "I know."

"I'm not sure I can go back to how things were before."

"I'm certain that I cannot."

"And I'm dripping your semen onto the sheets."


	4. The Dinner in Knightsbridge

It should have been the end of things. We should have been strong. But, as the cliché goes, the end is only the beginning. I guess I should rewind some, it's been awhile since we last talked. Too much has happened to fully summarize, but I suppose I'll try. I'll start from where we left off...

 

After Tom left the AirBnb rental following our unplanned re-encounter, I put on my best game face for James. I avoided all gossip sites, didn't look at any tabloids, pretended like nothing had happened. I didn't even tell James I'd been arrested. Hell, the officer said it wouldn't be an issue at immigration, right?

But it didn't matter. I was there in the tabloids: Tom's Shocking Affair. Tom Foolery. Tom's New Squeeze: An American? Tom Bails Out Dangerous Lover From Jail, What Will His Wife Say? My photo, grainy and diffused, standing too close to Tom for it to look innocent, was there. The British tabloids are less friendly than the American ones. Outright crass and horrendous. Tom didn't message me. We didn't communicate at all. After the Murdoch phone tapping ordeal, no thanks.

It wasn't until Tuesday that the first problem occurred. James and I were in a restaurant in Knightsbridge and some girl recognized me from the tabloids. She came over, after several whispered comments with her friend, and awkwardly asked, "Are you the slag having an affair with Tom Hiddleston?"

I stared at her. James stared at her.

I finally said, "No."

I wanted to say, "Who the hell is Tom Hiddleston and why are you slandering me in front of my husband?" but James knew that I knew who Tom Hiddleston was. That I had, on more than one occasion, jokingly mentioned wanting to fuck him.

James looked at me, "What is she talking about?" 

I shook my head, "I have no idea." 

The girl left, shaking her head to indicate to her friend that I wasn't the mystery slag. But James asked again, in a different tone, "What is she talking about?"

I told him again that I didn't know.  He said he was going to look it up.  It was out of character for James, to look up celebrity gossip at dinner, or ever. I asked if he had the international data plan. He nodded as he typed "Tom Hiddleston affair" into his phone’s internet browser.

"Oh my god." he said.

"What?" I asked. I was nervous now. I had no idea what the photos would show. I had no clue if it would be obviously me or not. How much I could lie about this. How exactly I would have to lie about this. If it was even worth lying about.

For a brief moment I let my mind linger to Tom's lips on mine. To the blue of his eyes when he told me he loved me just before he left. _I love you, Andrea, now and always. This cannot be shaken. I love you._ His words ran through my mind like a lost poem of the bard. Damn Brits and their literary training.

"This is you." James said, shaking me from my guilty reverie to my now guilty reality. "'Tom's Dangerous Mystery Lover'. How exciting. This is you, look."

He showed me the phone. The photo was not grainy at all. It was clear. Perfectly, digitally clear. Me and Tom standing on the street appearing to be holding hands. I wondered if there was more. If they'd followed us back to the apartment. If they'd climbed the roof across the street and telelensed into the room. The curtains had been closed. I remembered checking.

"Wow." I said, looking at the photo.

"Please don't act surprised." James said. "What happened?"

"I don't think we can discuss this here." I said.

"Are you protecting him?" James' voice became harsh, entirely foreign to me in its disdain and disgust. Just like that, we were entering new territory in our relationship. A trip abroad will shake things up, indeed.

"No, I'm protecting you." I said simply. "Right now you don't exist in the story. But if we have this conversation here and someone tapes it and sells it to the tabloids, then you do exist. I doubt you want that."

James looked away. He knew that I had slept with Tom. That was clearly written across his face.

"I have to go." he said.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"For a walk. Somewhere. Hyde Park. I don't know." he managed, standing up.

"Should I wait up for you?" I asked, hoping to avoid a scene. I had to get the fuck out of this country.

"No, I don't think you should come back to the apartment tonight." he said.

He dropped twenty quid on the table and walked out of the restaurant. I didn't know what to do. Did I follow him? Did we have a loud, teary fight while walking through Hyde Park? There was no protocol for this. Lonely Planet did not provide a bulleted list of Best Places to Have a Fight with Your Spouse in their guide to England and Wales.

He was angry, he needed time to cool off, I reasoned. But mostly I felt relief. Relief that he didn't know how far in Tom and I actually were. Hand holding on the street in daylight was nothing. Sex was nothing. We were too far in for that.

I sent the text then: "I need a room tonight." A couple minutes later I received a reply from Tom that said, "Savoy on the Strand, ask for Martha at Concierge. Sorry for all this."

I had the restaurant call a taxi and took it to the Savoy.

 

The hotel was all European glamour on the Thames. I hoped this wasn't where I was staying. The front entry was crawling with press and photographers. Someone important must be arriving tonight. The doorman opened the front entry for me and I smiled at him. My footfall clicked on the black and white checkered marble floor of the lobby as I made my way to the Concierge. He looked up and asked how might he help me.

"I'm looking for Martha." I said.

"Oh yes, I have a message for you." he replied and reached under the desk to pull out a hotel stationery envelope. I opened it to find a room key and the number "814" handwritten on the inside of the envelope.

"Thank you." I said to the man.

"Lifts are straight through there. Please let me know if you need anything. Change of clothes, meals, the like. Your expenses are taken care of." he said and handed me his business card. "Call at any time."

"Oh, okay. Thank you." I said and looked down at his card. "I'll let you know, Gregory."

I left Gregory McDaniel, Savoy's Chef Concierge, for the elevators. They operated via key card only. It reminded me of my first night with Tom in his midtown hotel by Central Park. How long ago that was and how far away it seemed.

I opened my room door to find that it was a corner suite and quite large. There were two sitting areas, one appeared to be an office and the other for entertaining, and a bedroom closed off by French doors. I walked to the window and opened the curtain. The London Eye was close by outside, shimmering in the darkness of the evening. It was quite dark because of the new moon. James would think about that as meaning something else. I wondered though, what the lunar cycle held for me and Tom. I sat on the padded oversized window sill and took in the night, the river, the city. London was much lovelier from up here. Elevation was deceiving. New York had taught me that truth.

There was a rap on the door. I looked through the peep hole and opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked Tom.

"May I come in?" he replied.

"Yes, sorry." I said.

He quickly entered the room and I shut the door and slid the deadbolt back into place. I turned to Tom and repeated my question.

"They have a private entrance here. It's the easiest place for me to come unnoticed." he said.

I nodded and walked back to the window.

"No lights?" he asked. I hadn't turned on the lights yet.

"It's harder to see with the lights on." I said. I meant for me to see out, but it was equally relevant for the outside seeing in.

"What happened, Andrea?" he said softly.

I turned to see that he had moved to stand behind the sofa. His hand was resting on the carved mahogany back of it. It was a restored antique, upholstered in striped cornflower blue and cream satin with gold threading. I assumed it was Italian, because all satin upholstery turns out to be Italian. Tom looked very natural standing behind it. The blues brought out his eyes and complemented his black jacket. He stood almost with a regal air, poised and calm. His face, however, looked very concerned. I looked at his hand again. At the gold band on it.

"Come here." I said.

He walked over to me and I took his hand and pulled off his wedding ring. I pulled off my own rings and then set all three on the lamp table next to the window sill. I sat down and pulled him next to me.

"Show me where you grew up." I said.

"Waaaaay over there." he said pointing to our far right, the southwest.

"I think James is going to leave me." I said.

He didn't say anything, but put his arm around my waist. We sat in silence perched on the window seat for a while staring out at the lights of London. Finally I put my hand over his and gave it a squeeze. He pulled me into his body and kissed my temple.

"I'm so sorry about this." he whispered.

"I'm not." I said evenly. "I've felt empty since Saturday."

"Empty, yes. That's the exact word." he said.

"I think we've been doomed since 8th Avenue." I said.

"I refuse to call you doom."

"I think we should lie down, Tom." I said.

He laughed and kissed my neck before standing up and adjusting his pants to handle his erection.

"Don't bother," I said and walked to the French doors. I opened them to find a turned down King sized bed. The duvet cover was a mint green with embroidered swans, white with silver detailing. I pulled off my shirt and bra and pants and underwear and climbed into the bed. Tom stripped down and slid in next to me, wasting no time to pull my naked body to his own.

"Do you have to go home tonight?" I asked him.

"I probably should." he said.

"What's she saying about all of this?"

"Nothing. She's ignoring it." he said. "She's ignoring most things to do with me these days, in fact."

"Don't do that. Don't make things in your marriage bad so that you feel justified."

"I wish I was." he said distantly.

"Do you?" I countered.

"It's a complicated feeling." he said.

"I know."

"Andrea, loving you is such a combination of sheer joy and sheer..."

"Terror?" I supplied.

"Upheaval, is the better word." he laughed.

"Get inside of me, Tom." I said and kissed him on the lips. We lingered there for a moment before he flipped me on top of him and I straddle his waist. I placed him inside of me and lowered my hips down over him. Once he was entirely inside of me, I sat there and closed my eyes. He waited, rubbing my thighs while he did. I leaned down and kissed him open mouthed, our tongues meeting for a moment before I started to move my hips. It felt overwhelmingly good. Almost honest.

We fucked like that until I tired out and sort collapsed on top of him. He wrapped his arms around me and stroked my hair and my back.

"Who is Martha?" I asked after a couple of minutes.

"No one." he said. "Just a code."

"I see."

"I lied earlier. I don't need to go home." he said. "Susannah moved out."

"When?" I asked.

"Last month."

"Are you using me?" I asked after digesting what he'd just told me.

Tom shifted in an attempt to sit up and I adjusted myself to sit cross-legged facing him on the bed.

"Why would you think that?" he said. His eyes were honest.

"Why would you lie when you knew I was still married?"

"I am still married, too." he pointed out.

"Apparently. You still wear your ring." I said.

"I lied because I was embarrassed." he said.

"I see."

"This actually makes things easier." he said.

"For you." I replied.

He paused a moment and then said, "I love you."

"Pretty words are easy to say. But what do you want from all of this?"

"I want you." he said in a sure voice.

"Like a flame wants oxygen?"

"No. Like a man wants a woman."

"What kind of a man?" I asked with a smile.

"The good kind." he said.

I looked away for a moment. Was I trying to put societal standards on him? That wasn't fair. We had both done things wrong in society's view. In our spouses' views. It would be hypocritical to hold him to those standards now, but not hold myself to them. He wanted me. What did I want? I looked back at Tom. He was playing with his hands, looking down at them. I wanted to say, "Are we really going to do this? To start this relationship for real?" but I was too afraid.

"I think you should go home." I said instead.

"Are you upset with me?" he asked.

"No, not at all. I just need to be alone."

He let out a sigh and said, "Okay." before standing up and pulling on his clothes. He turned to look at me again, his shirt in his hand. "You're certain you're not angry with me?"

"Positive. I just need some time to think." I said. "A lot's happened in a short period of time."

"Upheaval." he said and nodded to show that he understood.

I smiled and gave him a wink.

"Okay, well, then I will talk to you later." he said, pulling on his shirt and making his way to the hotel suite's door. I found his jacket draped over the back of the sofa and handed it to him, still naked myself. He looked me over and smiled. I took a couple steps towards him and kissed him. He was passionate in return, clearly not wanting to leave. He gave my bare ass a light tap and told me to be in touch. I nodded and he left.

I put my underwear on and found a bathrobe in the closet. I wrapped it around me and checked my cell phone. Nothing from James. I walked to the window sill. I looked back at the room, which felt rather empty now. I saw that Tom had forgotten his ring on lamp table. I picked it up and sat down on the window seat, leaning my cheek against the cool pane of glass. Even a Fairmont hotel couldn't keep out the London night. I played with Tom's ring, putting it on all of my fingers and moving it in the dim city light of outside. It was shiny and smooth. Well-worn. James never wore his ring. It likely still looked brand new. I didn't even know where it was. I'd never cared that he didn't wear it. Maybe we knew all along that it was going to end. We had avoided any binding permanence. No kids, no house, no shared bank account. I hadn't even changed my last name. It was never relevant, but maybe it was something more? I felt myself start to cry and slid Tom's ring onto my ring finger. I had to hold it in place with my thumb because it was so big. There was a rap on the door. I wiped my face and walked over to the peephole. It was Tom. I pulled his ring off and into the palm of my hand and then opened the door.

"Hey, sorry" he said. "I forgot--"

"--your ring." I finished for him, holding open my palm.

"Right." he said. He took the ring from me and put it into his pocket. "Are you okay?"

"Come inside." I said.

He came inside and I shut the door.

"I know I told you to go," I started, "But I don't ever want you to leave me again."

He pulled me into his body close and I wrapped my arms around him tightly.

"I won't." he said. "I won't."


End file.
